QUICKSAND years that whirl me I know not whither,
Your schemes, politics, fail–lines give way–substances mock and
elude me;
Only the theme I sing, the great and strong-possess’d Soul, eludes
not;
One’s-self must never give way–that is the final substance–that out
of all is sure;
Out of politics, triumphs, battles, life–what at last finally
remains?
When shows break up, what but One’s-Self is sure?
Reading Time: < 1 minute
